Her Journal Entries
by elizaye
Summary: A helpful friend sends Draco some entries from a certain bushy-haired girl's journal. "It wouldn't hurt to know what she was thinking. I'm getting a free chance to read her thoughts. Why not?" Rated M for language, no smut. ONESHOT


**Author's Note:** I actually started this two weeks ago, almost to the day, and finished it maybe a week ago. I wrote it in pieces, a little at a time, so if there's a problem with the flow, that's why. Not really any smut in this fiction—it's only rated M for language. Tell me if I should lower the rating; I really don't know where the line is drawn between ratings… hehe.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the fantastic characters or the world of _Harry Potter_, only this little plot.

As always, read and review!

**Her Journal Entries**

_Hey. Not sure what to write, so I'm just… writing._

_Look, I know that you two had an awful fight. Both of you said some things you didn't mean. I can't say much about you, but I wanted you to know that she's miserable. She won't admit it, and she won't show it, but we all know she is. It's that obvious to us. If you believed what she said, I guess I can't blame you. It was crazy back in school._

_The papers in the envelope… you should read them. I'm pretty sure she'd kill me just for __reading__ her journals, not to mention photocopying parts of them and sending them to you. But it hurts me to see her in so much pain, and if the only way to make her happy again is to get you back for her, then that's what I'll do._

_So please, take a look. We never got along, even after we ended the war together, but I'm asking you to do this one favor for me. Please don't ignore this letter._

There's no signature at the bottom, but it's obvious from the messy scrawl who sent it. I pick up the thick envelope that came with the attached note.

Journals. Plural, hmm? It's hard to believe that someone could fill up even _one_ journal. Then again, if anyone could, she could.

Fuck this. I don't want to do some fucking homework assignment just because he _asks_ me to.

I make to toss it into the flames, but I can't do it. I drop the envelope back on the small table to the right of my armchair and pick up the glass of scotch. I swirl the glass and watch as the amber liquid sloshes around. Then I tip my head back and pour the contents into my mouth.

Fine, I'll humor him and read a few pages. If it's boring as hell, which I'm sure it will be, I'll stop.

I lift the envelope and flip it over to open it. My fingers pause for a moment before ripping the paper. With a sigh, I extract the folded pages inside and open them up.

The first date doesn't even surprise me. No wonder she has more than one journal.

_**September 1**__**st**__**, 1991**_

_I'm so excited! Tonight turned out wonderfully. I was sorted into Gryffindor, which is the house defined mostly by bravery. Of course, I expected to be sorted into Ravenclaw, because Rowena Ravenclaw selected her students according to intelligence and wisdom. And while I hate to think that the Sorting Hat was wrong, I do believe that I'm much cleverer than I am brave. Nevertheless—_

This is fucking boring. Why the fuck did he think that I would be interested in this?

I toss the stack of paper to the side and reach for my glass, only to remember that I finished it. Damn. I get to my feet and get a bottle of Firewhiskey from the cabinet. After popping the cap, I move back to my chair and sink into it, staring glumly into the fire.

Half a bottle later, I glance back at the sheets of paper.

It wouldn't hurt to know what she was thinking. I'm getting a free chance to read her thoughts. Why not? If anything, I could use it as leverage in the future—if we _have_ a future, that is. I'm not _really_ curious. No, not one bit.

I pick up the stack of paper and leaf through a few pages until I see my name. The handwriting has changed, from a curly print to a more elegant cursive. Checking the date, it makes sense—quite some time had passed.

_**November 5**__**th**__**, 1996**_

_I can't put my finger on it. Malfoy is different this year. Harry is practically becoming obsessed with finding out what he's up to, and I think it's rubbing off on me. I can't stop thinking about him. I don't understand what's wrong with me. I haven't even mentioned it in previous entries because I'm so… so ashamed of it._

_I've been catching myself staring at him. The more I look at him, the more… the more attractive he seems to become, and the more difficult it becomes for me to look away. I don't understand why this cursed attraction is plaguing me. I'm almost willing to consider that I'm under a spell. But I've been through almost all of the books in the Restricted Section of the library, and I haven't been exhibiting any signs of being under anyone else's control. So the only explanation I can come up with is that I'm a hormonal teenage girl, and I'm drawn to him, simply because he's physically attractive._

_Of all people, why Draco Malfoy?_

The entry ends there, and I frown. So it started in sixth year for her, did it? Looks like I still have her beat, as far as who had feelings first.

I look at the note grudgingly.

Fine, I'll finish reading this—can't stop now, not after reading what I just did.

_**March 16**__**th**__**, 1997**_

_Yesterday, I was finally proven right. That damned Half-Blood Prince really was up to no good, after all. Harry found Malfoy in a bathroom, and they fought. He used one of the spells from that book on Malfoy, and it was obviously very Dark magic—I didn't see it myself, of course, but from the description that Harry gave me, there's no question about it. Harry didn't feel good about it afterwards, but I warned him! I warned him that the last owner of that book couldn't have been a very good person._

_And why was Malfoy crying in the bathroom?_

I wince. That isn't a memory that I particularly like reliving, and the fact that she knows I was crying is a blow. But I should have known that Potter would tell her and Weasley.

_I really, really don't want to believe that he could be working for Voldemort. Harry keeps saying that, but I'm not going to believe it until we have evidence._

_But he's gotten worse. It's obvious. I've seen the dark circles under his eyes, the way his skin is even paler than it was before. I can't help but worry about him, and I can't even tell anyone about it because I'm supposed to suspect him for being a Death Eater! I don't know what to do._

_Last night, I borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak. No. To be completely honest, I stole it, just for a couple of hours. I went to the hospital wing to see him. I had to. I don't even know why I had to._

_This isn't me! I don't just do things without thinking. I just… I couldn't bear the thought of him, lying alone in the hospital wing, so hurt because one of my best friends suspects him of being a Death Eater._

_He looked so peaceful in sleep. It was harder to see the bags under his eyes, but in the dark, he still looked deathly pale. I wish I could do something for him. He seems to be struggling more with course work this year._

_His potions grades have fallen considerably. He used to be second to me in the class, but now he's barely scraping by. Of course, that may have something to do with Slughorn taking over for Snape, but even if Snape did favor Malfoy, he couldn't have done __that__ much for Malfoy's grade. I never thought he was stupid. He's also gotten a few detentions for missing homework assignments._

_I stared at him for such a long time last night. It was so quiet, and there was nobody to catch me, nobody to judge me. I just sat by the hospital bed and watched him sleep. Oh god, that sounds so much more stalker-ish when it's in writing._

_But I couldn't help it. He was… the only word I can use to describe his sleeping face is beautiful. You're just a journal, so you couldn't possibly see him. And I don't think any words could do him justice anyway, but I'll give it a try. Every feature is perfect. His face is perfectly symmetrical, with a masculine jaw, prominent cheekbones, strong eyebrows… His cheeks are a little hollow this year, and he's so pale, but he still manages to look so beautiful, without even trying. I almost envy him._

_I only wish I could have stared into his eyes for so long. They're so mesmerizing. I haven't had an argument with him for so long that I've almost forgotten what they looked like—the way they flash in anger, sparkle with amusement. The reasons for his amusement are usually rather awful, but I can't help but feel attracted to that sparkle in his eyes._

_God, this is really awful, isn't it? I shouldn't pay so much attention to Malfoy. I shouldn't be spending so much time writing about him, for goodness' sake. I almost want to rip these pages out. I won't want to remember this phase when I grow up, will I? I'm almost certain I'll be mortified that I was ever this attracted to and fascinated by him._

I tear my eyes away from the page. She thought I was beautiful in the phase of my life when I looked like shit? I know I'm attractive, but the Hermione Granger from sixth year needed her eyes checked. She didn't notice my appearance when I was looking my best, and yet she thought I was _beautiful_ while I was wasting away?

Well, I guess that's just typical Hermione. She _would_ only begin to notice me because I was in pain.

I lower my eyes back to the page and see that the entry is cut off here, and the date of the next one makes me want to stop reading.

_**June 30**__**th**__**, 1997**_

Fuck. That's a date that I'll never forget.

The ink seems to have bled a little, in the shape of droplets. She must have been crying as she wrote.

_Dumbledore's dead. Snape killed him. Malfoy was the one who let the Death Eaters into the castle. I can't believe it. Harry was right. He was working for Voldemort all along. And I actually fought with Harry over him! God, I just can't believe how much I was in denial. I wanted so much for him to be good that I refused to accept that he could really be working for Voldemort._

_And now, Dumbledore's gone. I don't know what we'll do without him._

_I didn't really see Malfoy all throughout the fight—too busy defending myself. But Harry said that he saw Malfoy preparing to kill Dumbledore._

_I was so wrong. So, so wrong. How could I have been SO WRONG about a person? And the worst part about it is that I can't even bring myself to hate him!_

_I hate this part of me, this part of me that's capable of almost sympathizing with that foul git. Even as I write that he's a foul git, that part of me tells me that I shouldn't be calling him that. He's doing it for his family—he's done all the wrong things, but for the right reasons._

_Malfoy… he's not even of age yet. He's a boy who's been drawn into something that's bigger than him, and out of his control. And I can't hate him for that, even if he caused Dumbledore's death._

I can't believe my eyes. I read the last paragraph again, and my chest begins to burn. When no one cared about my plight, she somehow knew everything that I was going through. I hardly even spoke to her for all of sixth year. Yet she knew… and summarized all of that year for me in a paragraph.

There's a lump in my throat as I remember all the things I said to her a few days ago. All that shit about her never understanding me and hating my guts… fuck.

I want to Apparate to her place immediately, to apologize. But that damned Malfoy pride won't let me even get out of my seat.

She'd thrown a vase at my head and said she never wanted to speak to me again, that nothing I said would fix our relationship. I'd told her not to hold her breath waiting for my apology, because she wouldn't get one, not for another thousand years.

I royally fucked up.

I take another long draught of Firewhiskey and look down at the pages. The words are blurring into dark blobs. I blink, and a teardrop hits the paper.

Fuck. I'm pathetic.

I toss the papers aside. I can't keep reading this. I already have half a mind to go to her flat now and beg for her to take me back, and if I read on, I'm afraid that I won't be able to avoid it.

There's a reason why I was sorted into Slytherin and not Gryffindor.

I storm out of the study and through the empty halls toward my bedroom. Upon reaching it, I throw the door open and enter. Suddenly, I feel hot, constricted. I unbutton my shirt and shrug it off, letting it fall onto the ground in a heap. Then I sit down on the edge of my bed.

I glance at the nightstand and see two pictures of me, standing alone. I heave a sigh and pick up the closer of the two picture frames. My parents used to be in this picture. But they were offended that I placed them next to the picture of Hermione, so they refuse to come back. And Hermione… she's left the other picture for obvious reasons.

Disowned by his dead parents, unwanted by his girlfriend—_ex_-girlfriend, I suppose. That's what's become of the _great_ Draco Malfoy.

And I have no one to blame but me. I put the frame back on the nightstand and run a hand through my hair. I'm itching to go back and keep reading, but I don't want to.

Fuck! Did he have nothing better to do than to read through Hermione's journal and send me the parts that would make me want to grovel at her feet? There are huge time gaps between the entries that he sent. What if he just left out all the terrible things that she said about me? I'm sure there weren't a shortage of them…

* * *

Half an hour later, I'm back in that armchair, the cursed papers back in my hands. I have to know. I can't go on without knowing, not when I have the answers right in front of me.

_**June 7**__**th**__** 1998**_

_I don't know what happened today. I had a chance to kill him. But I pulled his mask off and choked. I saw his face, and I couldn't do it. I had my wand pointed at him. My hand was steady. But the words got stuck in my throat. He looked so calm. He looked so ready for death. But I couldn't do it._

_And then the moment was gone—Harry and Ron grabbed me, and we made a run for it. They didn't ask me about Malfoy, but I know that they were thinking about it—that they're probably still thinking about it, even now._

I remember that day. I was part of a raid that got interrupted by the Golden Trio. I remember _wanting_ to die. I remember being furious that she didn't kill me. Furious, but curious as well. The look in her eyes hadn't said mercy. I'd only seen an internal struggle playing out. Her two choices were obvious—to kill or not to kill—but I couldn't tell what was stopping her hand.

Apparently, she hadn't known either.

_**July 1**__**st**__**, 1998**_

_Malfoy was pacing up and down the street in front of the house, today. It looked like he really wanted to come in. Like he knew that the house was there but couldn't see it, thanks to the Fidelius Charm. So I volunteered to go out and confront him._

_What he told me sounded too good to be true. He said that he didn't want to be a Death Eater anymore, that the strain was getting to be too much for him. And then he offered to pass information along to the Order. While I'm ecstatic for a new source of information, I'm worried about its source. I kept telling myself, while we were speaking, that he couldn't possibly be telling the truth. But for some reason, no matter what I do, I can't help but think that he's being honest._

_And for some reason, probably the same reason, I can't convince myself that he's not worthy of my trust._

Hmm, so she did really trust me, from the beginning. Strange woman, she was. And still is.

I frown when I see the next date, which is almost exactly a year after the war ended—we'd already started dating by then—secretly, for fear of what our friends would think.

But yes, I remember the exact date that Potter finally got the best of the Dark Lord: September 13th, 1998, Friday the thirteenth. I remember Granger mentioning that Muggles believed that day to be a day of bad luck, Friday the thirteenth. But Potter turned it into a day to be celebrated in the wizarding world. Funny that the entry for that day isn't in here. But I guess it isn't _so_ relevant to our relationship.

It's a short entry, but her words…

_**September 10**__**th**__**, 1999**_

_I'm in love with him. That's the only explanation. I went back through my journal entries for the past year or so. I can't even find the day when it began. It just… did._

_I love Draco Malfoy._

_God, that looks terrifying on paper. I don't think I'll ever tell him. I don't think he'll ever feel the same way about me._

Fuck.

She'd suggested that we never use _that_ word in our relationship unless we really, _really_ meant it, simply because of the consequences with our friends if we did get serious. I remember we'd come to that agreement right at the beginning of our relationship. I'd diligently kept it out of my vocabulary ever since—I'd even caught myself a few times, about to let it slip.

And now I know that she used it only a few months after we decided on that rule…

I let the papers fall in a cascade onto the ground and bury my head in my hands. Goddamn it, how did I let this happen to me? To us? I get to my feet and look around for my wand. I can't even remember what started our quarrel anymore. I just have to see her. I don't care if she throws another vase at me. It's impossible for me to stay here when I've just read those words in _her_ handwriting.

Oh, sod it, I'll Floo to her flat.

I grab a fistful of Floo Powder from the small pot above the fireplace and drop it into the flames.

A moment later, I'm emerging from her fireplace. It's dark and silent—she's asleep, no doubt. How many times have I told her not to leave the Floo channel open at night? _Anyone_ could get in!

Then again, if she had kept it closed tonight, how the fuck would _I_ have gotten in?

A Stunning Spell suddenly hits the wall just to the left of my head, and I duck, instantly alert. I roll forward, toward the source of the spell, and another jet of red light barely misses me.

"Fuck, Hermione, it's me!"

"Draco? What the hell are _you_ doing here?" she demands. "And why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

I get to my feet so that I can see her face, but she turns away. She's in her favorite, dark red nightgown, and I can tell from the bird's nest of hair on her head that she only just rolled out of bed. Must have heard the fireplace going off.

"I had to see you," I say.

"What, have a thousand years passed by already?"

She sounds bitter.

"Yeah. You slept right through it, Sleeping Beauty."

She whips around to glare at me. Fuck, shouldn't have said that.

"Just say what you wanted to say and then get out of here, Draco. I don't want to talk to you."

"I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "I don't believe you. What do you need help with?"

"Nothing. I never need help from you. I'm here to apologize for being a dick to you. I shouldn't have said all the things I said."

I cringe as the sight of her brings back the exact words that had spilled out of my mouth.

I'd called her worthless, uncaring, emotionless, said that she'd never understood in me the past because she hated my guts, and that she'd never understand me in the future because she didn't care enough to try. Of course, she'd said that it was all true because she was furious with me, and I'd gone on to say that I didn't care about her either.

God knows only she can wind me up like that.

"That's right. You shouldn't have. I'm glad you've had your epiphany. Now get out of my flat—I don't want to see you."

"You have every right to be furious with me," I say.

"Yes, I do."

Why is she so goddamn calm? She can't possibly be over our relationship already.

"I just have one more thing to say to you, and then I'll leave."

"Go ahead."

The words get stuck in my throat, and I turn my head away so that I can cough in an attempt to clear my throat.

"Was that it?" she asks impatiently.

I turn back to face her, but she's refusing to look me in the eyes. Good—that's a sign that she does still have feelings. I haven't screwed this up to the point of no return.

"Look at me," I say.

"I _am_," she says, in that same impatient tone.

"Look at my eyes, then."

"Why should I?"

"I want you to know that I mean what I'm about to say."

She sighs exaggeratedly and meets my eyes.

"Hermione, I… I love you."

She continues to stare into my eyes for another moment, but my heart sinks when she doesn't respond immediately. Finally, she blinks a few times and looks away.

"Are you done now?"

I feel a lump in my throat and swallow hard in an attempt to rid myself of it.

"Yes, I'm done," I reply, backing up. "Sorry for waking you."

"Bye, Draco."

My voice completely fails me, and I can only lift a hand in farewell before turning and hurrying back to the fireplace.

Not a minute later, I've collapsed back into the armchair, not caring that my feet are resting on the papers strewn across the floor.

I've really gone and done it this time. I've lost her.

I grab the note that came with the excerpts from her journal. He probably did this on purpose. He might have even been plotting this just so that I would feel guilty and give her that apology.

_I wanted you to know that she's miserable_.

The fuck she is. She's perfectly fine, and it's killing me. She doesn't care anymore.

…_it hurts me to see her in so much pain…_

I crumple up the note and toss it over my shoulder.

The more I think about it, the more pissed off I get. How could I have believed that note so easily? These journal entries could even have been magically altered. Damn it! I hardly ever act before thinking it through. That's what I get for drinking too much before reading those stupid entries.

I get back to my feet and stalk out of the study, down the hall and back into my bedroom, where I sit down on the bed.

I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. Everyone who loved me has either died or left me. But you know what, I don't _need_ them. I can live just fine on my own. I don't care.

Sure, because if I keep repeating that to myself, maybe one day I'll believe it.

I'm a world-class idiot.

I'm so lost in my pathetic, despairing thoughts that I don't even notice when someone crosses the wards placed around the Manor. I don't notice her presence at the entrance to my room until she knocks lightly on the door, startling me.

"The fuck do you want?" I growl, averting my eyes.

I wait a while for her response, but there is none. Curious despite my better judgment, I lift my head and see that she's looking back at me wordlessly. I don't know what to say, so I wait for her. The ball is in her court, anyway. She knows how I feel.

I let my eyes drop to the ground. Then I hear her footsteps as she approaches me.

"Draco, it's… it wasn't all your fault," she finally says. "I said some things that were pretty horrible."

She stands in front of me and puts her hands on my shoulders, and I lift my head again to look at her. Her eyes are welling up, but she continues to speak, and I decide not to interrupt her.

"I shouldn't have called you a gutless bastard, because it took a lot of guts to betray Voldemort, and I know that. I shouldn't have compared you to your father. I should have known better than to call you a heartless playboy, because you stopped being that a long time ago, for me," she says.

I get to my feet as she speaks, and she has to raise her arms to keep her hands on my shoulders.

"I _definitely_ shouldn't have said that I'd stopped caring a long time ago," she says. "Draco, I—"

But I already know what she wants to say, and I find that I don't need to hear her say it. I pull her into my arms and kiss her lips, taking her by surprise. She gasps into my mouth, and I take the opportunity to plunge my tongue into her mouth. Blissful sensations course through me as she responds to the kiss fervently.

It's fascinating how one person can stir up so many emotions in me—irritation, remorse, devastation, arousal, over the course of a single night. I've never _really_ known what love is, but this… this urge to stay with her, despite the plethora of emotions that she brings out in me—emotions that I'd usually much rather suppress—this must be love.

Then she's gently pushing at my chest, and I back up a step. My calves hit the bed, but I stay standing, my arms still around her.

"Draco?" she says, a little breathlessly.

"Aw, it was just getting good," I say, grinning.

"I just have one quick question for you, before we get to the make-up sex," she says.

I can't help but smile. Always so straightforward, this lioness. "Anything you want to know," I reply.

"Who _photocopied_ my journal entries and _sent them to you?_" she demands.

Oh, fuck. My smile fades. I forgot that I left those all over the floor.

"Erm…"

She sighs when I don't reply. "Oh, forget it. I can already guess. I am going to _kill_ him the next time I see him."

"Oh come on, Hermione, you should _thank_ him. I never would have gotten over my arrogant self if I hadn't read a little of your thoughts," I say.

She stares daggers at me, and I speak quickly to avoid being hexed by her—since I still don't know where my wand is, I'm completely defenseless.

"When you said you'd never cared about me, I believed it. I wasn't someone who deserved your care, back at Hogwarts. So it really stung when you said that, especially because I thought you'd lied to me all the times when you said you _did_ care," I explain.

She sighs again.

"So you should thank Weasley for sending those. Honestly, I'm surprised that he wanted you to be happy so much that he would try to help _me_."

She puts her arms up around my neck and smiles. "I'm still going to kill him the next chance I get. Those are _my_ journals, and Ronald _knows_ better than to go snooping through them."

I lower my head to flick her upper lip with my tongue and hear her breath catch in her throat.

"Admit it. You're at least a _little_ thankful that he sent those entries to me," I murmur, pulling my head back slightly.

She only shakes her head. Her eyes are focused on my mouth, and her lips are parted slightly. I love how aroused she is after a simple touch.

"Now you're just in denial," I say, smirking. "So, what was it you were saying about make-up sex?"

Her eyes flit up to meet mine, and I smile at the sight. Those lovable, warm, amber-flecked brown eyes are uncharacteristically fired up, blazing into mine. My tongue darts out to lick my lips, teasing her, and she yanks my head down to claim my lips with a growl.

God, I love this woman.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I still don't know whether or not I myself am satisfied with this story, but I couldn't think of anything else to add. Hmm… I'm curious to know what you guys think of it though, so review! :)


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